


Can I Walk With You

by SumthinClever



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SumthinClever/pseuds/SumthinClever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A growing up fic with John and Sherlock. [IMPORTANT: This fic is in a trial run stage. Thoroughly unfinished and possibly to be revamped soon. Suggestions for improvement are appreciated.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I Walk With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donotjustlive-fly (spanish_tomato13)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=donotjustlive-fly+%28spanish_tomato13%29), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> IMPORTANT: So this is a fic I've been working on the last few days and can't decide whether to finish or not. I need input. Is this even worth reading in its current form? If not, I'm going to scrap this attempt and revamp it fully. If so... we'll see. Any help/opinions at all are appreciated...
> 
>  
> 
> So this fic will consist of a series of scenes, some longer than others. As this story spans their entire lives, there will be a multitude of scenes. However, as some times in their lives are more important than others, some events will have more than one scene devoted to it. Warnings: 1) Often changing POV. 2) I twist words and invent them outright when standard English fails to satisfy. 3) I seem to fail at writing children. So Kid!John is either very precocious or advanced as hell. And Sherlock is well…Sherlock.
> 
> Fun Fact: Every scene will be titled with a song or poem title. I came across the idea looking for a title for the fic among my music/poems, as I sometimes do.

_Impossible_

Sherlock couldn't understand how a class could be so boring, and believe it, he'd tried. He'd deduced, he'd calculated, he'd experimented. According to all evidence, it should have been impossible for a class to be this painstakingly, this mind-bogglingly, this IQ plummeting-ly  _dull._

He knew he was smarter than every student in here. He'd wager that he was smarter than the teacher as well, but winning bets against himself was too easy.

Sherlock let his mind wander, paying attention with the miniscule part of his consciousness needed to follow along with the lesson. They were learning about solar systems. Dull. Who cared if the Earth circled the sun or vice versa? What impact did either have on  _his_  life? None.

It was nearing the end of the school day and Sherlock was anxious to get home. Not that home held any better entertainment than this place, but he wasn't surrounded by quite so much stupid there, Mycroft notwithstanding.

"Okay everyone," the teacher was saying, "I have a surprise for you. Next week a new student will be transferring into our class. We will all be sure to give him a warm welcome when he arrives, right?" she asked brightly.

There was murmured assent from a class that was much more interested in the end of a school day and start of a weekend than a new student that hadn't even arrived yet.

But Sherlock's interest was piqued. A new student, eh? This was a brilliant opportunity to possibly liven up his school days. The new boy couldn't possibly be any more dull than the rest of the children in this class.

And it was the perfect chance to perform a minor experiment. When he himself had tested above his grade level and was thus placed into this class, his reception had been mixed at best. There were those that had treated him as a curiosity and those that were clearly easily jealous of his ready intelligence. In almost no time, however, his deductions and brains had even driven those that had treated him with interest away. He was now an outcast. Nothing new, really. All of his previous classmates had felt threatened by him, as well.

But this new boy presented a new independent variable to the vast dependency of the class. How would they respond to yet another new student in their class who was apparently smart or rich enough to have earned or bought his way here? The latter wouldn't likely bother them. This was a prestigious school for the well off and influential. Almost everyone here was the child of some well to do bureaucrat or another, if not the offspring of someone who had used fame to claim their money and status. But if he were smart…

Sherlock liked the possibility. He wouldn't be as smart as Sherlock, obviously, but if his IQ were even a modicum over mealworm like the rest of the unfortunate inhabitants of this class, Sherlock thought they could get along. Until he proved himself dull. As usual. They all did.

But until then, Sherlock was quite looking forward to next week and the revealing of their mystery student.

* * *

_Pressure_

John stood in front of his new house. It was huge! They'd never lived anywhere so big. John wasn't sure why they moved so much, but his parents' constant arguments had often included the words "drinking" and "gambling." And John had witnessed his father stumbling in on several occasions less than in his right mind. It seemed his father had a hard time holding on to money. But he must have figured it out because this place was a palace compared to some of the other places they'd stayed.

Now John was living in this mansion and expected to go to the best school in the country for rich children. What did they expect him to do here? He'd stick out from these children like the poor come suddenly rich boy he was. He just hoped he didn't embarrass himself too badly. He didn't want to be separated from the other children because of it.

He was nervous, but he had until Monday to prepare himself. That was a lot of pressure to put on two and a half days, but it was all the time he had.

John moved into the house to start unloading his things. He might as well enjoy being here as long as he could. There was no telling how long it would last this time.

* * *

_Haven't Met You Yet_

Sherlock arrived home to see a moving truck at the house next door. He knew it had sold a month or so ago but hadn't paid a great deal of attention to the prospective buyers that had come and go in hopes of securing the property. He wondered which had succeeded.

The house had once belonged to an old man that had never married and had had no children. Sherlock had liked him, as much as he liked anyone. He was interesting. The man would play his violin at all hours of the day and night. Sherlock had found the sound soothing. Found he could think more clearly when the smooth notes vibrated through the air and into him. The man had begun trying to teach Sherlock to play the violin before he'd died, had left it to him after. He'd been the only one Sherlock had ever met to seem happy in Sherlock's company, had not minded his deductions. He'd called him a clever lad. Treated him with a lot more warmth than his own coldly intellectual parents and brother ever had. Sherlock would miss him.

So who was it that thought they were good enough to move into his house? That thought they could fill it and replace the music that had once made the air dance? And with what, exactly?

Sherlock sincerely hoped they didn't have children, that the new boy from his class did not prove to be his neighbor. That if they couldn't live up to the presence that had once inhabited the house, that they make themselves as quiet and un-irritating as possible. If they were, it would make it easier to pretend that the violin playing old man was still in residence, simply waiting for Sherlock to return for another lesson.

Sherlock waited a moment but no one left the house. He supposed he'd have to wait to see who his new neighbors would be. He decided to go play his violin. Best let them realise just how things were around here.

* * *

_The Waiting Hour_

John stood outside the classroom that would be his at this new school. He'd been marvelling at the magnificence of the school since he arrived. It was like a museum. Huge and old and he feared he'd be scolded if he so much as looked too hard at the art on the walls.

He shuffled in his new uniform and shoes and fiddled with his tie. Red and gray. He liked it. But if all felt so different from the casual shirts and jeans he was used to wearing to school. Especially the shoes that shined on his feet. He knew he'd scuff them up beyond recognition before too long. He was too active.

His mother had wanted him to get his hair cut and styled in some posh way, but his father had overruled her.  _Let him still recognise some part of himself_  he'd said. His mother had huffed but John silently thanked his father. Were it not for the undeniably John Watson hair atop his head, he wouldn't know who this boy in this sharp uniform with his bloodless face in this fancy school even was.

But John's observations of the school and his discomfort of his uniform and the very un-John-ness of most of his appearance took to the back of his mind as he waited to be ushered into the room and meet his new class.

He didn't worry too much about being able to keep up in class. With his unstable living situation, John had felt his mind was the only thing he could control. He'd studied very hard and read as many books as he could get his hands on, few as they sometimes were. His teachers had always commented on his ability to keep up in class and ask advanced questions.

John knew he was advanced for his age. He'd had to be. With a father that was sometimes so drunk he didn't know his own name and a mother that got mad enough to be distracted from cooking or cleaning or minding her children, John had to grow up faster than he should.

And his sister, Harriet, wasn't immune. Three years his senior, Harry had had to take up where their mother left off, finding food for herself and her younger brother, putting him to bed some nights, making sure he got up in the morning for school. She'd been as much mother and care provider to him over the years as sister and playmate.

John's trance was broken when the door to the classroom was reopened by the secretary that escorted him here and she ushered him into the room. This was it. Time to meet his classmates.

* * *

_Things Will Never Be the Same_

Sherlock watched as a delicious contradiction walked into the classroom. The boy was wearing a uniform that was starched and pressed and clearly fresh off the racks. He walked with an air of nervousness which was understandable coming to a new school but out of place among any child of the elite who grew up in situations where they were constantly forced to be in the presence of new people and act with decorum.

He sported messy blond locks that were in contrast to the rest of his put together attire. He shuffled in a way that belied his comfort in wearing clothes of the caliber that the uniforms came in. his fingers twisted in his pants, an unconscious nervous gesture that hadn't been scolded out of him.

He clearly wasn't from a high up family of long money. Yet he didn't look as if he'd earned his way here on scholarship either. There was no air of pride or arrogance for his intelligence, no confidence in his mental abilities that Sherlock knew he and every member of his family had in spades.

So what was this boy doing here?

* * *

_Introducing Me_

John walked into the room with as much courage as he could. He tried to hide his nerves but wasn't sure how successful he was.

He stood next to the teacher as she introduced him to the class. John was surprised by how bored everyone looked, even in the face of a newcomer. In every other class he'd been in, whether he were the new student or someone else, the class had open curiosity and enthusiasm for someone they hadn't seen before. These students looked as if they couldn't be bothered to care if he even existed.

The only one staring at him with any particular interest was a boy that looked a bit younger than the rest of the students, sitting alone at a two person table in the back of the room.

John tuned back in to the teacher as she directed him to the back to sit beside the lone boy, Sherlock.

John walked back and joined the boy at his table. Sherlock's eyes did not leave him. John met his gaze and felt Sherlock was looking at him, into him, through him, that no part of himself was safe from that look, that there was nothing that he could successfully hide from that penetrating gaze.

John met the gaze head on, let himself be stripped bare to this boys eyes, the only one that had looked at John as if he could care.

"I'm John," he said to the boy.

Sherlock smiled. "Interesting."

* * *

_Back and Forth_

In the way of the fates that Sherlock didn't believe in, John did happen to be among his new next door neighbors. But more importantly, John was  _interesting_. He didn't stray from Sherlock's side when he let loose his deductive powers.

On the contrary, when Sherlock had laid out his life before his coming to this school they now shared, as he inevitable had to, John's eyes had glowed with amazement and excitement and all he'd said was "brilliant!" He hadn't been ashamed of his father's drinking and gambling problems, his mother's thoughtless neglect, or his sister's premature need to care for him. He'd only wanted to know how Sherlock had come by his conclusions. And of course Sherlock spelled it out for him, all the telling little signs.

His walk, his shuffle, the way he spoke, how his tie was knotted, his nervous habits and the way he responded to certain stimuli. They were all indicative of something or another and Sherlock merely had to trace the pieces of evidence to their sources to come up with the right conclusion.

John had responded with an open enthusiasm and asked him to deduce other things about other people.

John was like that. Open. He took to his new school as it seemed he'd taken to the rest of his life- with a strong will and an acceptance of whatever was thrown at him. But moreso with a need to overcome it when he could.

The class warmed up to him over time. They were drawn to the carefree, unassuming person that John was. He could do nothing to advance them, as was often the root of many friendships among this lot, but he set a person at ease nonetheless, and people found him excellent company.

Even Sherlock, though this baffled him. He'd never been lured to an incessantly happy person before. But then again, there had never been a John Watson in his life before. Sherlock was still marvelling that someone like John could even exist.

The days passed easily for him. There were still the endless streams of idiocy from the people in his class and school overall, but John made them bearable.

John spent a bit of time at Sherlock's house when Sherlock could bear to bring John around his family, and Sherlock visited John's house when his father wasn't took drunk and mother wasn't expressing her displeasure by neglecting the children he'd help produce or having affairs with other men out of loneliness and spite.

But at least they weren't hurting for money anymore. Sherlock had finally found out that John's family had come into some money from some obscure relative, but that most of it was tied up in trusts. The stipulations of the will had provided for a house and top schooling for the children, and monthly stipends for the parents.

But mostly, Sherlock and John stayed away from their houses as much as possible. Sherlock would have his handler take them to the park where John would try to participate in Sherlock's experiments when Sherlock let him, or sit back and watch when he wouldn't.


End file.
